from the LP Black Sabbath, Vertigo Records, 1970
I will never forget the first time I heard this, the self-titled opening salvo from what was to become the world’s foremost dispenser of doom-laden rock: right about the point where we are confronted with the “…big black shape with eyes of fire, telling people their desire; Satan’s sitting there, he’s smiling, watches those flames get higher and higher…”, my typically unfazed adolescent mind became flooded with epinephrine & endorphins, seemingly released in time with my suddenly racing heartbeat, nearly echoing Ozzy’s sentiments, “…NO, NO, please God help me…” Granted, I was listening to it on headphones alone in my room after having smoked a couple bowls of schwag, but for a blazing moment (no pun intended) the boys in Sabbath literally made me feel Satan’s breath on my fucking neck; shit, everything about these guys was scary as all hell, from their name to their gloomy ambiance, and even that green-tinted witch on the album cover still terrifies me a little. Of course now, being old & wise & boring (see: not believing in pointy-tailed monsters who live in the core of the Earth), the content doesn’t pack the same creepy wallop, but the visceral impact of their music absolutely does: whether it’s the molasses-slow tempo of the song’s body, or the monstrous riffage of that insane breakdown about 4:35 into the track, this song (and indeed, the whole LP) marked the true beginning of heavy metal, in my humble opinion anyways.
from the LP Uphill All the Way, Transatlantic Records, 1971
My friends would tell you that I talk a lot of shit on James Taylor (sure love you Ms. Kate), and it’s true--- every fucking song that guy writes is the same goddamn tune, and not in a cool way like Van Morrison, but in an annoyingly practiced way that makes it very hard for my mind to accept him as either “cool” or “enjoyable to listen to”, let alone even conceive of this guy shooting dope (I know, it’s not a made up story, but seriously, can you imagine James Taylor asking you where you keep your sharps…?!). In all honesty though, a few of the variations on his monotonous theme are fairly agreeable, but his voice aggravates me to no end, so I found a rollicking cover of this breezy number by the stellar & criminally unknown UK crew, Unicorn (yes, weak name, but don’t hold it against them). The vibe is positively Laurel Canyon, so it’s kind of a shocker to picture them laying these tracks down across the pond, with the help of one David Gilmour no less; any fans of easy-going ‘70s rock would be well rewarded to track down all 3 of there albums.
from the LP KISS, Casablanca Records, 1973
Had some exceedingly good crate-digging yesterday at a local record store, scored some dank jazz-funk LPs & a rare electro release, but the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly a surprisingly clean (NM) copy of this, KISS’ debut album, a totemic item which proved impossible to resist. Excepting for the useless inclusion of the cover “Kissin’ Time”, which early copies of the album wisely excluded from the mix, there isn’t a throwaway track on here, coming right out of the gate with everything already in place to take over the world, as this song ably demonstrates: powerfully creeping bassline, big rhythmic drums, gnarly lead guitar, and Paul Stanley’s inimitable NYC-ized vocal delivery. Well, everything was in place except Peter Criss’ makeup, which got fixed, thankfully; gotta love the breakdown by wasted-ness though, with Criss and Ace both lidded & bloodshot, Stanley maybe drunk, and Simmons sober as the day is long.
from the LP Cyborgs Revisited, Get Back Records, released: 2003, recorded: 1975
Americans tend to be astoundingly naïve about our neighbor to the north Canada, presuming that it’s just full of nice, aloof, white people living quiet, dimly humorous lives in a snow globe (largely thanks to the hilarious brilliance of Strange Brew, a film whose witty jibes at U.S. stereotyping many oblivious people here took literally… whoops); in fact, Canada (in the big cities anyways) comprises one of the most progressive & liberal nations in the world, not to mention diverse. Due to it’s proximity to Toronto, a major metropolis by any country’s standards, it shouldn’t be too surprising that Hamilton, Ontario would spawn a band as raw and ahead-of-their-time as was Simply Saucer, a group better known for being one of the now-famous Lanois brothers’ first production credits (essentially just hitting the “record” button at this primitive stage in their career). As a result of Saucer’s gritty and, at times, proto-punk leanings, critics constantly trace their lines of influence directly to acts like the Velvet Underground & the Stooges, and although they were clearly touched by those vibes as well, its entirely apparent to me that the Rolling Stones were really at the core of what they were trying to do here; this song in particular comes from that same sordid & squalid place that Mick & the boys called home before things got predictable, sounding like a further deconstruction of the Stones’ already well-damaged “Stray Cat Blues”.
from the LP Second Helping, MCA Records, 1974
It’s incredible to me what a fucking swindle most classic rock-n-roll really was, a true & thorough pillaging of every last recorded blues note that had ever been plucked, and not a single one of them (Page, Clapton, Townshend, Richards, Beck, Lennon, Davies, et al.) ever had to pay those visionary brothers (or their families) a dime for getting butt-rich off of their lives’ harrowing truths & hardships. I suppose that alone wouldn’t be such a big deal in & of itself (past is prologue, and all that…), but those same bands were then so quick to turn around and sue the fuck out of (mainly) black men in the ‘80s & ‘90s (and they will still sue anyone to this day) who were merely sampling a few seconds of their already ripped off licks, hypocrisy of the highest order if you ask me. In actuality, those rock heroes owe much of their surreal privileged lives to brave and oppressed gentlemen like the one depicted in this essential cut by Skynyrd, cats who knew full well that their musical talent would never be enough to change their status in the culture which they then lived, resigned to the therapy of strum…and some wine…word.
from the LP Standing On the Verge of Getting It On, Westbound Records, 1974
“…music is designed to free your funky mind, we have come to help you cope; out, into another reality, you will be, through our music, we bring you hope…” What better mission statement than the above rhyme could one concoct when attempting to sum up the lasting importance of George Clinton’s P-Funk mothership, set to land around this area in about a month, and you better believe my ass will be there! These were Eddie Hazel’s last major song-writing credits with Funkadelic, so it’s a nice twist of fate that the riffs he laid down on this album (and particularly those found here on the title track) happen to smoke harder than a 16 year-old pothead fresh out of rehab; seriously, metal bands even got wet over this shit, it comes so hard. It’s almost unfathomable when you start walking through all the Parliament & Funkadelic albums and come to find yourself confronted with such an amazingly massive glut of top-notch tunes, I don’t hesitate to say that it easily eclipses James Brown’s discography in all-around funkiness, perhaps even equaling his legacy in cultural impact. Long live the Supreme Maggot Ministers of Funkadelia!! Free your mind and your ass will follow…!
from the LP Blind Faith, Polydor Records, 1969
“How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. You can never go home again.” ---James Agee, A Death in the Family My apologies in advance for the following trad emotional rubbish, which you likely had to endure last year as well, if my memory serves me right… something about visiting the town you grew up in mixing with the unavoidable reeling and looks-back that the end of another year plies from our drunk & stoned minds, it always gets me basking in the strange melancholic glow that this song (and the above quote) radiates. Every time I go back to Florida I am reminded of this seeming fact of life, though admittedly, trying to get back to that place of reckless abandon which characterized my youth is always fun, albeit tamped down considerably by the present reality of being a semi-responsible adult; to be honest, the older I get, the less firmly I believe in the absoluteness of the quote which begins this post, as every time I reconnect with an old friend it thoroughly floors me with positive & encouraging energy, reminding me that there are no rules, there’s no parameters. I’m not entirely sure which angle was Winwood’s intention when he penned these lyrics, but he surely must have realized the timeless strength of a metaphorical phrase like “can’t find my way home”. Much love to Kristen M, whose enduring free spirit was the highlight of my trip!!
from the LP Bongo Fury, Discreet Records, 1975
Lost in the maelstrom of grading that becomes every teacher’s world for the last couple weeks at the end of each semester, I somehow managed to miss the unfortunate news that Captain Beefheart had died last Friday, after a hard-fought battle with MS. Given that tomorrow would have been Zappa’s 70th birthday, I figured this song was an appropriate selection (Zappa’s mind-melting solo here is one of his best ever, and that’s Beefheart’s inimitable voice singing backup vocals at the end, “girl, you thought he was a man, but he was a muffin…”), taped live on the tour where their relationship, both personal & professional, basically fell apart; fortunately, the two men buried the hatchet previous to Zappa’s passing away. Plenty is being/will be written about the legacy of an artist as eccentric and anarchic as Beefheart was, so I will leave all the mushy eulogies about everything the world of modern music & art has inherited from him to the experts---suffice to say, the dude was far out man, and so was Zappa. Rest in peace fellas!
from the LP In Search of the Lost Chord, Deram Records, 1968
No matter how impractical such a scenario would likely be, it’s easy to get tempted by the earnest idealism found within the concept of a psychedelic utopia, at least partially because some of the motivating factors which played into that equilibrium (i.e. war, poverty, and perhaps most notably, a disillusionment with the traditional rules & regulations) remain potent forces in many people’s lives today. The Moody Blues, having become rather notorious drug-takers by this stage in their career (love the acidy, proto-Alex Grey cover art), present a song here from the point of view of an older individual who, perhaps having turned on, realizes that he’s wasted his whole life, “…I worked like a slave for years, sweat so hard just to end my fears, not to end my life a poor man, but by now, I know, I should have run…”; thus, he admonishes some unseen young person to “…take this place, on this trip…ride, take a free ride…have my seat, it's for free…let’s find another place that’s free…” I doubt sitting around taking psychedelics all the time would be the solution to the world’s issues, but maybe we do need something radical, like having all the globe’s leaders eat mushrooms together, to begin the conversation…can you even imagine that?!!
from the LP Crosby, Still & Nash, Atlantic Records, 1969
“…there's just one thing I got to know, can you tell me, please, who won…?” American children aged 10 and below have lived their entire lives with our nation at war; if you consider that we typically don’t become conscious of much outside our own lives until we are five or six years old, it’s essentially an entire generation of kids that have known only war---albeit, a rather detached vision of war, but war none the less. It doesn’t take a social scientist to know that that’s going to have some impact on their socialization, but speculating what that fallout will look like is anyone’s guess; you can bet that David Crosby, Stephen Stills & Graham Nash would prefer them to be a bit more disgusted by the ever-growing military industrial complex (both federal & private) in front of them. This anti-war tale, fittingly written on Crosby’s boat in conjunction with the Jefferson Airplane’s Paul Kantner (safe to assume they were all exceedingly baked), takes a different approach from many of its leftist musical peers of that time, tackling the idea of thermonuclear fallout rather than merely the Vietnam mess that was then at hand, “…wooden ships on the water, very free and easy; easy, you know, the way it's supposed to be; silver people on the shoreline, let us be, talkin’ ‘bout very free and easy...horror grips us as we watch you die, all we can do is echo your anguished cries, stare as all human feelings die, we are leaving---you don't need us…” This album remains rock solid from front to back, a relic of its time but, sadly, still relevant to unlearned lessons.
from the 7” single, Colgems Records, 1967
“…and the kids just don’t understand…” The suburbs have been topical fodder since their inception, the epitome of the American dream for some & indicative of the evil empire for others---the ironic thing about that being that families who live in suburbs are no more/less similar than yuppies living downtown or heads living in the hills, and it’s foolish to attempt painting them with a broad brush. That hasn’t stopped numerous songwriters & poets from decrying the presupposed malevolence that neighborhoods full of similar looking houses must presumably espouse, and this sprightly and delicious treat from the Monkees is a great example of that; written by Carole King & Gerry Goffin, it’s a sarcastic mockery of all things cookie-cutter, very of it’s time and place, and one in a long line of Monkees tracks that sound happier than a double rainbow but include heavy-ish lyrics. This single came right as the Monkees were beginning to show their countercultural leanings more and more, rocking love beads and dashikis all over the place, having grown tired of being seen as teen pop idols. Another pleasant valley Sunday indeed, only the “charcoal burning everywhere” is just as likely to be found alight in a hookah as it is on a grill.
from the LP Electric Warrior, Reprise Records, 1971
The concept of having a “next big thing” has chewed up and spit out a myriad of artists over the years, the notion that there is always something just around the corner, waiting to be discovered and celebrated, while at the same time encouraging us to turn on that which we were loving only moments before, but must then scoff at as “so last year”. I’m sure all of us here are above having our tastes be impacted by changing trends (right, and monkeys might fly out of my butt…), but generally speaking, fads have a way of destroying musicians as quickly as they have made them into stars; this is nothing new, as even classical performers & composers fell victim to passing styles and new crazes. Marc Bolan was something of a paradox when it comes to this subject matter, clearly having been an individual that was keenly aware of all the things considered in-vogue at any given time, but also someone interested in helping to define whatever zeitgeist happened to be emerging; thus, even though he was quick to abandon his elfin-hippie persona once ‘60s psychedelia became passé, he imbued a number of his glam rock masterpieces with an underlying sense of dippy ephemera, something which clearly differentiated his work in T.Rex from that of other glam “rockers” that tread much closer to the bubblegum model. That mixture of pastoral and spacey acoustics cut with harder-driving electric tendencies was a combination that makes this album absolutely magical, as evidenced in this lilting number, particularly towards the end of the track with that mind-melting back-tracked guitar & violin filled coda, simply divine and utterly heady man!
from the LP Machine Head, Warner Bros Records, 1972
Heavy, man. You’d better believe that when Ian Gillian declares, “…I got speed inside my brain…” he aint just talking about driving fast. Always popular with heads, this album was the one which accurately cemented Deep Purple’s reputation as one of the heaviest bands on Earth, still standing today as their magnum opus, and for good reason: it fucking kills! Released in ‘72, this particular song (one of the best album openers ever) is perhaps the most literal musical embodiment of that year’s GTO, Challenger or ‘Stang: fast, loud, ready to kick ass & hot as all fuck. Those were cars that you fucked on & in, and this was rock-n-roll that people fucked with & to, get it? “…nobody gonna take my car, I'm gonna race it to the ground, nobody gonna beat my car, it's gonna break the speed of sound; Oooh, it's a killer machine, it's got everything, like a driving power, big fat tires and everything…” Go ahead, blast this one while you’re racing down the interstate and tell me you don’t own the fucking road---just don’t send me your speeding tickets…
from the LP Cottonwood Hill Bellaphon Records, 1970
Unfurling like a multicultural happening for psychedelic adventurers, the band Brainticket clearly benefited from having members of so many different backgrounds, with no less than five distinctive nations being represented here (Belgium, Scotland, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland); quite frankly, it’s perfectly apropos when you consider that, back then, a lot of good-hearted folks still believed in the notion of psychedelic drugs actually transforming humanity into a more peaceful and informed state of unified existence. While that utopic vision never fully renovated society’s norms & values, the creative expressions of those caught up in the moment remain for us to examine and enjoy, conceivably with a less serious mindset but no less enjoyable, musically speaking. There are shades of Pink Floyd, King Crimson, and even Soft Machine within this track, and if you can get past the acid-camp images delivered with such dire magnitude by singer Dawn Muir, there’s actually a lot to enjoy here, perhaps most of all the jazzy breaks care of drummer Cosimo Lampis. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em.
from the LP Think Pink, Sire Records, 1970
As we’ve previously discussed, the term “psychedelic” carries with it many varying connotations which may or may not be appropriate for any given instance of its use, but in the circumstance of drummer John ‘Twink’ Adler, that word becomes more of a life goal than an adjective. In other words: he composed drug music about people on drugs, made by individuals that were themselves high on various hallucinogenic substances, and largely crafted for others who indulge in the same behavior. Part-time member of the seminal Pretty Things & also Hawkwind, co-founding member of both Tomorrow and underground favorites the Pink Fairies (a crew whose legendary drug-related antics made even the boys in Hawkwind seem a bit square by comparison), Twink was also one of the few friends of Syd Barrett who truly remained close by him after his firing from the almighty Floyd and during his mental dissolution, urging him to continue on with musical endeavors until Barrett could play no more. Speaking of Pink Floyd, several tracks found here on Twink’s debut solo effort feel like the perfect union between their work in the years following this (i.e. Meddle or Obscured By Clouds) & the lysergic orchestration of the Moody Blues stuff just previous to this, and no other track illustrates that concoction of vibes better than this one; the contrast of an acoustic and blazing electric guitar, the sweeping ambiance, echoed singing, a touch of violins and majorly mushroomy lyrics, “…standing tiptoe on the highest hill, watching dawn give birth to the light, I cry…” Anyone who has watched the sun rising during the peak of your trip knows well the impact of such an event while under that influence, so for those uninitiated in the weirding way, rest assured, this is no exaggeration.
from the 7” single, Seaside Records, 1973
Without a doubt, the Bay Area funk scene has always been prone to many other musical influences, fashioning a healthy range of performers who like(d) to color outside the lines but sought the groove above all things: Sly & the Family Stone, Graham Central Station, Tower of Power, et al. Out of this heady stew came many musicians that never gained the kind of notoriety those listed above got to enjoy, perhaps most unfairly so in the case of the guitarist heard here, one Eugene Blacknell. Now it’s true, I could listen to those four measures after the intro (between 18 & 28 seconds into the track) on a loop for days, probably not even get hungry of suffer from malnutrition thanks to the elephantine levels of FATness resisding in those dank-ass breaks, but unlike many other breaks-tracks that leave much to be desired when it comes to the rest of the song, this funky instrumental number brings some hot shit care of Blacknell’s searing, fuzzed-out soloing (the likes of which sound almost similar to some of Carlos Santana’s bluesier riffing from back then, especially when taken as a whole with the percussion & organ). In the proper, ahem, “state of mind”, this one can really take you there…
from the LP Argus, MCA Records, 1972
Autumn is easily my favorite season, perhaps increasingly more so as I continue to get older, the funny colored leaves & unruly winds really ignite my imagination like no other time of the year, the visible persistence of time, in motion. We all contain varying levels of wanderlust, remnants from our vagabond past perhaps, and something about this evocative term annually conjures that nomadic spirit like feedback inside our subconscious amp. Crafting big boogie blues-rock with major progressive leanings, Wishbone Ash was easily one of the more memorable (and unique) hard rock bands of the 1970s, bringing an ambiance which felt aged, but not stodgy, almost mystical in places; ultimately, their songs feel comfortably familiar & reminiscent---I mean, everybody can relate to lyrics like, “…in my dreams everything was all right, in your schemes you can only try…”! They were never concerned with singles, something which has unfortunately doomed them to near-obscurity in the States, mainly because they have been wholly ignored by classic rock radio, which sucks; their dual-lead guitar attack, care of Andy Powell & Ted Turner, was one of the first, and they remain among the all-time best at achieving a perfect balance between both players. Rock on.
from the LP The Beatles (White Album), Apple Records, 1968
John Lennon would have turned 70 years old today, and there are likely hundreds of other bloggers writing about this anniversary as we speak, so I’ll spare you my esoteric ramblings on what made him such a real revolutionary and just let the music lead the way. This polyrhythmic monster of a track is categorically brilliant from start to finish: every change in time signature, every metaphor, every axiom, every acidy image, every goddamn bloody note people!! That potent contrast of guns mixed with sex, death & life, the drug experience ultimately straddling both worlds simultaneously---no one else wrote songs quite like this, “…she's not a girl who misses much…she's well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand, like a lizard on a window pane…I need a fix ‘cause I'm going down; Mother Superior jumped the gun…and I feel my finger on your trigger… happiness, is a warm gun; bang bang, shoot shoot…” There was a seemingly interminable willingness inherent to much of Lennon’s work, both with the Beatles and without, a willingness to focus the lens on things that struck him as fucked up, whether in his own life or around him, an eagerness to get it all out. We could sure as hell use some of his earnest enthusiasm these days, more than ever really, and I can only imagine the plethora of things he’d be commenting on, both big and small (“Happiness is a Warm Tan”?!!). Rest in peace, you wild-eyed radical.
from the LP Black Sabbath, Vertigo Records, 1970
